


And in the Pieces We Are Found

by Itsallfine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fix-It, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Series 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-18 20:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9402002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine
Summary: A collection of unconnected short stories inspired by series 4. Summaries/warnings by chapter:Chapter 1: John’s lower lip had left a smudge on the rim of the glass, and Sherlock was mesmerized. (first kiss, implied/referenced alcoholism)Chapter 2: John vowed never to lay his hands on Sherlock in anger again. (love confession, implied/referenced abuse)Chapter 3: Can a good man be a coward? Can a man do hard things, horrible things, and stay clean?





	1. Imprint

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something that could take place any time in series four. Inspired by John's implied alcohol issues in TLD, but dealt with using a gentle touch.

Sherlock watched from the hallway behind the kitchen as John studied his glass of scotch, the remainder of the bottle on the table at his elbow. The glass was still quite full, about at the level John typically filled it to. Untouched? Or possibly a second glass, a third? He sat in Sherlock’s chair, rather than his own—what could be deduced from that? Possibilities unspooled in a thousand directions, but all of them led to a singular desire to say something, to rip the drink away and shake him and place himself for consumption instead.

Sherlock hesitated. The rules were so unclear. He’d held him just the night before ( _fingers on skin, warm weight against his chest, mouth pressed into silver-gold hair_ ), but this—still dangerous territory. Things were so fragile, and Sherlock feared anything that might cause them to slide back into those dark waters. He would sooner drown himself than drag John back down to their shared hell.

And yet.

“You can come out here, Sherlock. I see you over there.”

Sherlock startled. John hadn’t moved an inch, hadn’t so much as glanced his way. But then, they’d always been unnaturally aware of each other's presence. He approached John cautiously, as if a mere whisper of sound would send the glass to John’s lips. John smiled, but there was nothing good in the pained twist of his mouth.

“Go ahead. Do what you came here for.”

Once upon a time, Sherlock would have scoffed at the idea that John could possibly know what he was thinking. Now, the real question was _which_ course of action John had picked up on—the practical one, or the desired one? Both were dangerous in this case, so Sherlock opted for the more emotionally neutral option.

With slow, measured movements, Sherlock took the bottle of scotch from the side table and replaced the stopper. John, without a word, handed his full glass over, too. The ice cubes clinked against the the glass walls, mostly melted, and condensation ran cold down Sherlock’s wrist as he carried both the glass and the bottle to the kitchen. The bottle went on a high shelf far out of John’s reach, in among the pots and crockery they rarely used. He moved to the sink to empty the glass… then paused.

John’s lower lip had left a smudge on the rim of the glass.

He _had_ drank some. But only a single lip print, not several overlayed, barely there—just the one sip, then. Good.

He should pour the scotch out.

The glass was at his mouth without him actively deciding to put it there, his tongue tracing the rim, dipping out to tap it over and over like evidence at a crime scene. And it was quickly _becoming_ a crime scene as he fit his lip directly over the ghost of John’s mouth, not drinking, just _pressing_ , breathing. Sherlock’s head swam with the smoky scent of scotch, the imagined slide of John’s mouth on his, and his breath huffed out in a little sigh that fogged up the interior of the glass with his heat.

Then fingers covered his around the cool body of the glass, drew it away.

John set the tumbler down on the counter with great care, and for the briefest of moments, Sherlock glimpsed the impression of his lip over John’s on the rim, a confession. A testament. John’s eyes were dark, and as serious as Sherlock had ever seen them as he stepped right up into Sherlock’s space. Not touching, hands at his sides, just… standing with his chest mere inches from Sherlock’s, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s breathing went shallow as his entire body thrummed with John’s proximity, the air between them electric. His chin tipped down, closer, an unconscious betrayal—but apparently the exact thing John was waiting for.

With his hands still at his sides, John leaned up and just… _dragged_ his lower lip across Sherlock’s once, letting Sherlock feel every bit of texture that formed the imprint on the glass, plush and warm and _god_.

Then again, even slower, their bottom lips the single point of contact between their bodies, before finally... _finally_ sealing their mouths together in one long, firm _press_.

The kiss lingered, slow to end and intense in a way that made Sherlock’s chest clench and lit a fire low in his stomach. When John finally pulled away, his eyes were no less stormy, though his breath slipped between kissed lips a bit harder, faster.

“Okay?” he asked, voice low and rough.

Sherlock’s mouth quirked into the world’s tiniest smile; in awe, overwhelmed, _in love_.

“More than,” he replied.

John brought his hands up to Sherlock’s hips and brushed their noses together. “You can pour out the rest of the bottle. I won’t be needing it.”

Sherlock wove his fingers into John’s hair and pulled him in for another kiss, stopping just short of contact.

“You have better things to be doing with your mouth now.”

 


	2. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John vowed never to put his hands on Sherlock in anger again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny thing to help me cope with John's violence toward Sherlock in TLD. Past abuse and homophobia are referenced.

“There’s something I need to say.”

Sherlock studied John for a long moment, bringing his folded hands to just barely touch his mouth. 

“Are you sure?”

John clenched his fist, then released. Push through it. 

“I went too far. I hurt you.”

“I deserved it—”

“You didn’t. No one deserves that.” A hard breath in. Turn. Cowardice—turn back. “It was wrong, and I don’t know what scares me more—that you don’t see that, or that I’m capable of it in the first place.”

“John, really, this is—”

“NO, Sherlock.” Familiar anger, a hot surge. John forced himself back a step, redirected the tension in his fists and arms to calm the ache in his heart. “I have something I need to say. And I need to know that you understand, that this isn’t an excuse, and it’s doesn’t make this okay. Can you do that for me?”

Sherlock held himself absolutely still except for a tiny, barely perceptible nod. 

John turned away again, gathering the scattered remnants of his heart together for this one last thing. Everything in him screamed _run, fight, hurt, tear, scream_ but he drew his edges close and held himself at a safe distance from Sherlock. Just in case. 

“When Harry…” he began, then cleared the roughness from his throat. “When Harry came out, my father beat the hell out of her.”

A pause. John bit the inside of his lip, felt hot tears in his eyes but let them stay. 

“And then he did the same to me, too, just to make sure I didn’t get any ideas.”

Sherlock sighed a tiny _oh_ , nearly silent, but it was enough for John to crack.

“And it doesn’t excuse _anything_ , Sherlock, it _doesn’t_ , but every time I get angry at you, it gets mixed up with—with what he was trying… what he was trying to… stop. In me. Do you understand, Sherlock?” His eyes glanced off Sherlock’s shoulder, the arm of his chair, the top of his head, before finally, finally settling on Sherlock’s own. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. He moved to stand, to wrap his arms around John like before, but John backed away. 

“No, Sherlock.”

John wiped a hand across his eyes, straightened his spine, and met Sherlock’s gaze again. 

“I’m not going to put my hands on you again until I’m sure… until I’m _sure_. I have an appointment with Ella this afternoon. She’s going to refer me somewhere so I can… deal with this.”

“And after?” Sherlock asked, remote, retreating behind his mask.

John took a breath and dared to take just one step closer to Sherlock. 

“The after… is up to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [librarylock](http://librarylock.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


	3. The In-Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tiny ficlet written immediately after the airing of The Six Thatchers.

John sat on the edge of the hotel room’s tiny bed, turning his phone over and over in his hands. It had been nearly a month since Mary’s death, but it felt like so much longer. A new city every day, airplanes, buses, disguises, completely alone. Almost alone.

His thumbs hesitated over the phone screen. 

_I don’t know if I can keep doing this._

> _You have to stay strong._

_I feel guilty._

> _That’s because you’re a good man._

John squeezed his eyes shut, tilted his head to the side, breathing through the wave of pain. A good man. Right.

Can a good man be a coward? Can a man do hard things, horrible things, and stay clean?

At least cowardice has an answer.

_There’s something I want to say to you. I never have._

It could have meant anything. It didn’t, but it could have.

> _Next time we’re together. Say it._

A fist tightened around John’s heart. The hand around his phone was completely steady.

_I will.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [librarylock](http://http://librarylock.tumblr.com) on tumblr


End file.
